


liquor, liquor lips

by sanetoshiapologist



Category: Mawaru Penguindrum
Genre: Distrust, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Gen, Identity Issues, Teen Angst, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-12
Updated: 2013-10-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 04:00:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanetoshiapologist/pseuds/sanetoshiapologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Improper, improper, improper- incorrect, wrong, you're a screw-up, you will never, ever be right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	liquor, liquor lips

Two sheet of crumpled paper land on her desk, angry with crimson slashes and the scrawl-y abandonment of a glittery gel pen. C, it boasts, mocking hours of study by candlelight, belittling bitten nails and beads of muddled anxiety.

The girl halts in her gum-chewing endeavor, eyes running frantically up and down the paper. A circle lassos itself around a scrawny "16 1/4", a note chiding, "Write as improper fraction. 16 1/4 equals 4. Is this true?"

A rhetorical question- the metaphorical queen of jesting.

Improper fraction, always improper, improper, improper. Girl improper, manners improper, numbers improper. It seems like a screwy sort of exaggeration- or perhaps a way to lazily mask the truth, the "you're a piece of shit and I'm dancing around what I'm really saying so I can spare your feelings, boohoo" mentality that teachers always think will trick students, toying with gullibility and faith like the shitty sadists they were.

Improper, improper, improper- incorrect, wrong, you're a screw-up, you will never, ever be right.

The teacher smiles a sickly sweet smile from across the room, her sole golden tooth winking merrily at her, before turning back to the board.

Adults pretended to understand kids- patting backs and baking brownies and whispering "I love you, I love you" over and over again until the three little words in succession became virtually meaningless. Cringing on the inside as they smiled their sorry little smiles, stirred crappy curry in a frothy pot, laughed away monumental problems with a wave of a taloned hand.

That boy you like pushed you down the stairs? He doesn't know what a lovely girl you are. The teacher picked on you during class? It's fine- she was probably just cranky that day. She'll go back to fawning over you by tomorrow!

Lies, lies, lies. Poison, poison, poison.

Her father had attached a small, dangling charm onto his phone, linked pinkies with her and promised. Her mother had smiled while watching. Ringo wonders if they both had their fingers crossed while the scene played out.

They're all such fakes, lying, lying, lying. Love was such an easy thing to lie about.

The truth is like a rusty dagger, Ringo thinks.

The pink diary sits, pages pristine and dust-free, at the bottom of her backpack

Momoka was perfect. Momoka was right. Momoka was proper.

Momoka, Momoka, Momoka. Bubblegum, tangled-up locks, wide, jack-o-lantern smile. Wildflower perfume, picture frames, grass and dew on a Monday morning.

Momoka. Ringo, when no one is looking, crumples the dumb test into a ball and tosses it in the direction of the wastebasket. It bounces off the edge, lands on the carpet in front of it and rolls to a stop.

No one seems to notice. The teacher speaks words she can't/won't hear, smacking the blackboard with a long, tapered stick. Chalk dust drifts through the air and lands on the tip of her nose. Tragically comical, Ringo thinks in half-amusement, twirling a strand of chocolate-y brown hair between her fingertips.

She wonders if Momoka would have been able to make the shot.


End file.
